


let's be alone together

by abovetheruins



Category: Rick and Morty
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Denial, Incest, M/M, Soul Bond, Telepathic Bond, not dealing with things
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-10-18
Updated: 2017-09-11
Packaged: 2018-04-26 23:47:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,761
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5025418
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/abovetheruins/pseuds/abovetheruins
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Morty soulbonds with Rick in a desperate bid to save his life. Both are unprepared for the consequences.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. the road to ruin

**Author's Note:**

> I'm officially rickmorty trash. Here, take my garbage.
> 
> Inspired in part by [this](http://chuubunii.tumblr.com/post/129355356533/dude-dude-rickmorty) post and [this](http://8tracks.com/c137cest/a-c-137cest-mix) fanmix.

Blood coats his hands, clinging sticky-wet to his skin and soaking into his clothes. He presses his hands to the wounds in a vain attempt to staunch the flow, feeling torn flesh and sinew squelching beneath his fingers.

Saliva gushes into his mouth, a sour sensation curdling in the pit of his stomach. He holds his breath against the sick-sweet iron tang of blood in the air, swallowing convulsively until the urge to puke disappears.

“S-shit,” he mutters, panic roiling in his gut as blood continues to gush freely from the wounds, unhindered by the clumsy press of his fingers. The skin beneath his hands is hot and clammy, his fingers too slippery, and he can’t _think_ , he doesn’t know what to do…

The body beneath him is still and silent, save for the rasp of shallow breaths rattling past parted lips. A pained wheeze precedes a fresh spurt of red across his hands, frothy red spittle mixing with the remnants of alcohol and saliva.

His brain goes into overdrive, thoughts darting through his mind like wisps of smoke, too numerous to name, too fast to grasp. He needs a hospital, needs help, needs _time_ , but the blood isn’t stopping, still gushing out over his hands and drenching his jeans, making the material cling dark and heavy to his thighs, and _oh god_ , he thinks, _please don’t die_.

A stray thought flickers through his head while he struggles to calm down, find a solution, and he sucks in a breath as he stares at the beaten, bloody body in his arms. It could work, couldn’t it? He’s thought about it before, in moments of weakness and stupidity, quickly discarded and forgotten after he’s been dealt a heavy dose of reality, but if there’s a chance – if it could work, he has to do it. He has to try. 

He needs to calm down first, needs to _think_ , because if he’s really going to do this, he can’t fuck it up.

It takes a few tries; his breath keeps sticking in his throat, his vision going fuzzy until he finally manages to pull in a lungful of the alien air. He breathes in, breathes out, using time he can’t afford to calm the rapid rise and fall of his chest. He curls his fingers around temples that have grown grey and ashen, touching his forehead to a clammy brow in an attempt to ground himself in the moment, to remind himself of what – of _who_ – he’s trying to save.

This close he can feel each short, rattling breath leaving the thin, battered body, and tears brim in his eyes as his fingertips brush against thin cheeks, mixing with the caked-on dirt, sweat, and blood that mars his face.

“Please don’t die,” he repeats, voice a hoarse croak as he closes his eyes, forcing himself to concentrate, to remember everything he’s ever learned about this process – in school, from his parents, from the Internet. He’ll try everything, just so long as something _works_.

For a moment there’s nothing – just empty space, the rasp of breath struggling through punctured lungs, and the rapid beat of his pulse pounding in his ears. His mind’s too full. He clenches his eyes tighter, forcing everything else out, away, all of the panic and the fear and the smell of blood clogging his nose, so that he can concentrate on reaching, searching for something, anything –

 _Where are you?_ he thinks desperately. _Please, you have to be here_. The alternative is unthinkable. The alternative leaves him alone, and he can’t think about that, can’t handle it.

And then he feels it – a flicker, like the spark of a flame pushing gently at his subconscious. It’s faint, far away, but it’s there, and he prods at it, careful, careful –

A wash of blues and electric greens crashes over him, driving a startled breath from his lungs and crackling like a storm across the expanse of his mindscape. It’s violent and hot and _alive_ , and he nearly sobs with a mixture of joy and relief as he imagines curling his fingers over the swelling tempest, drawing it closer and closer until he can feel it rolling like a wave over his own red-orange, vibrant thoughts, melding, blending together.

He doesn’t think about what he’s doing, doesn’t allow himself to question his actions. There’s no time for thought now, only action.

So he reaches out, and he _grabs_.

//

Morty wakes with a start, breathing hard as he stares through the darkness at his bedroom ceiling. He waits for his heart to calm, curling a hand over his chest before glancing at his night stand. His clock reads 3:28 a.m. He sighs, passing a hand over his face and grimacing at the sweat matting his curls to his forehead. He feels gross, tired, but he knows he won’t be getting any more sleep tonight.

He heaves himself out of bed, making his way a little unsteadily through the dark on legs that don’t seem to want to hold him steady. He hisses out a curse as he bangs his hip against a bedpost, groping for his dresser while he rubs gingerly at the swelling bruise. He digs out a fresh pair of boxers and a clean t-shirt before making his way out into the hall, the house dark and silent around him.

Summer’s door is shut tight, as is Rick’s, but his parents have taken to leaving theirs open at night. Morty tip-toes past their doorway, catching Jerry’s faint snores from within, and ducks into the bathroom.

He wiggles out of his clothes once he’s inside and slips into the shower, turning the knob all the way to the left. The hot water does wonders for his tight shoulders and aching muscles, pounding into his skin and driving the tension from his body, but it does little to distract him from his dream.

Not a dream, he reminds himself. A memory. 

He chews his lip as he passes a bar of soap over his body, moving on autopilot while his thoughts run rampant. He doesn’t like to think about it – the blood coating his hands and soaking into his jeans, the panic and fear and desperation roiling in his gut, the thin body lying limp in his arms. Doesn’t like to think about what he’d done. It had been stupid, reckless, an impulsively Morty move, but at the time he’d thought he had no choice. He hadn’t even known it would _work_ , or if he’d screw it up somehow and make things worse. And even afterward, he hadn’t had the luxury to worry about the consequences of his actions, had simply punched in the coordinates to the nearest hospital and prayed that he’d bought enough time to make a difference.

And he had. He’d saved a life that day, and he’d spent every moment afterward paying for it. 

He feels sick, thinking about it, though that’s nothing new. He’s felt that way for months now, ever since he sat by Rick’s hospital bed and felt the newly forged connection between them pulsing hotly in his mindscape. He’d nearly been forced into one of those beds too; he’d been doubled over in pain by the time he’d landed the ship and dragged Rick’s nearly lifeless body into the lobby, and he’d had to fight through the agony flaring through his insides to make sure the alien nurse at the front desk took care of Rick first before seeing to him. He hadn’t known how to explain what he’d done, wasn’t sure the life-forms on that planet even knew about soulbonds, what they were, how they worked, so he’d kept his mouth shut and whimpered through the pain until Rick was sedated and patched up. Only when his grandfather was pumped full of painkillers and sedatives had Morty been able to breathe a little easier, slumping sweaty and exhausted into his seat by Rick’s bed.

The nausea is bearable now, and has little to do with Rick being in pain. It’s the sickly-sweet delirium that Morty has grown to associate with his mad scientist grandfather sleeping off a bender, and he resigns himself to a headache and cotton mouth in a few hours, knowing there’s little he can do to counteract the effects but suffer through them in silence. At least he can handle them now – rather than being confined to his bed in a haze of nausea and pain, he can function relatively fine on his own.

He doesn’t really have a choice about it, either way. No one else knows about what he did, save Rick, and Morty has a better chance of actually scoring a date with Jessica than he does of getting the man to talk to him about any of this.

 _Just don’t think about it_ , he tells himself, stepping out of the shower and reaching for one of the towels hanging on the rack. It’s ironic that he’s adopted the same mantra that Rick has always touted, but hey, whatever works, right? It’s better than running himself ragged trying to fix what he’s done; every time he tries Rick shoots him down, his usually acerbic comments turning sharper, meaner. Their bond doesn’t help matters – Morty has to contend not only with Rick’s uncanny ability to make him feel about two inches tall but also with all of the rage and annoyance that comes with it. He can deal with Rick being an asshole, an extra thick layer of skin the benefit of spending the past two years in the old man’s company. What he can’t handle is feeling the contempt and disdain that Rick has for him; it filters through their connection no matter how hard Morty tries to block it. There are ways to do that, ways that they could help each other, make this easier, but Rick won’t try. He’d rather deal with the indignities than put Morty out of his misery, and Morty knows why. Rick is _angry_ at him, and he wants Morty to feel it.

Morty feels stupid for letting that get to him, feels like he’s fourteen again and competing with Summer over who gets to be Rick’s favorite. He stares at himself in the bathroom mirror, taking in his tired eyes, his damp curls, the line of his jaw. His face has grown a little leaner in the intervening years since Rick appeared in their lives, though there are still traces of baby fat clinging to his cheeks. He’s still smaller than most of the other boys, more gangly than anything else, and though a couple of years of traipsing after Rick across the galaxy has packed a little muscle onto his lean frame, he still looks scrawny. Overall he looks – well, like a Morty.

He sighs, running his towel over his damp hair once more before pulling on his clothes. He’s sick of thinking, at any rate, and if he’s not going to get any sleep he can at least spend the next few hours being productive. He slips out of the bathroom and heads toward his room, trying to remember where he’d left his 3DS. A few hours of mindless entertainment will be far more beneficial to his state of mind than worrying about – 

“Christ, watch where you’re going, Mo-OOUGH-orty.”

Morty freezes, his toes digging into the carpet as he peers through the dark at his grandfather. Rick’s standing just a few inches in front of him; apparently Morty had been about to collide with the man, so caught up in his own head that he hadn’t even noticed that he was no longer alone in the hallway. He can’t see Rick’s face in the dark, can’t really determine how drunk he is by the state of his voice. Their bond crackles in the air between them, like a bridge of static, and Morty feels the hair on his arms stand on end.

“O-oh, h-hey, Rick,” he says, keeping his voice soft so he won’t wake the rest of the house. “I was just – just heading back to bed.” He makes to move past the old man, intent on not touching him, but Rick’s voice stops him in his tracks.

“I’ve got something – an errand to run in the morning. Real – real important shit, Morty.” There’s a pause and the swish of liquid as Rick no doubt takes a pull from his flask, and Morty holds his breath as he waits for the rest, sure that Rick can feel his nervous anticipation through their bond.

Sure enough, Rick scoffs, a flicker of exasperation and something else flashing through their connection, but all he says is, “B-be ready. I won’t wait around for – D-don’t keep me waiting fo-URGH-r you.” He stumbles off down the hall before Morty can say anything, the bathroom door shutting with more force than absolutely necessary behind him.

Morty stands in the empty hallway for a moment, staring at nothing. They haven’t gone out since – since the last time, when Rick had gotten hurt, and Morty had thought – well, he’d thought that was that, that they wouldn’t have any more adventures at all. His parents had noticed, thought it was weird that Rick wasn’t taken him gallivanting across the galaxy anymore, and Morty had been too ashamed and embarrassed to tell them why.

What was Rick getting at, anyway? Was he – was he trying to trick Morty in some way, inviting him out only to leave him in the dust in the morning? It sounds like something he would do, to be sure, but Morty doesn’t see the point. Rick has been doing a pretty good job of humiliating and alienating him in the last couple of months, anyway.

He shakes his head, stepping into his room and closing the door softly behind him. He tells himself that there’s no use obsessing over it. He’ll just have to wait until morning, see what happens then. 

He slips back into bed, digs under his pillow for his 3DS, and flicks it on with his thumb. All the while his mind whirs, but he doesn’t allow himself to focus on anything beyond the flashing lights and music spilling from his game system. 

_Don’t think about it, Morty_ , he reminds himself, thumbing the A button as the opening menu pops up. _Just don’t think about it_.


	2. in a rut and a wasteland

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I just want to say how thrilled and amazed I am by all of the feedback I've gotten over just the first chapter. You guys are amazing, seriously, and all of your comments/kudos made me so happy! Thank you so, so much to everyone who took the time to read the last chapter, I hope this one doesn't disappoint!
> 
> The title of this chapter comes from [Mind Over Matter](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=bhs9DuY04rs) by Pvris, which may as well be the anthem for this entire fic.

Morty stares out the window into the vast reaches of space, his stomach tied up in knots. He’s queasy and exhausted, and his head feels like it’s been stuffed with cotton, tight and aching and too full. He keeps his forehead pressed to the blessedly cool glass and tries not to puke. 

He hasn’t bothered to ask Rick where they’re going; he doubts he’d get an answer even if he did. After all, other than the occasional drunken mumble Rick’s been completely silent, and Morty’s in no shape to start a conversation on his own.

He turns his head against the glass, shooting a feeble glare at the flask in Rick’s hand. There’s the source of all his problems – that and the empty bottles strewn across the floor of the ship. Rick’s been on what feels like a two month long bender ever since they returned from the hospital, and he’s showing no signs of stopping. It’s rare that Morty sees him without a bottle in his hand these days; the drinking has grown so frequent that even Beth and Jerry have commented on it, and Morty has caught Summer shooting concerned glances at Rick more than once over the dinner table. 

Morty’s had to figure out how to handle the repercussions of Rick’s alcohol abuse – which, thanks to the bond, he gets to experience firsthand – on his own. The soulbond works like a circuit, feeding not only their thoughts and emotions back onto each other, but their physical states as well, and so Morty has to deal with the nausea, the delirium, and the resultant crippling hangovers every time Rick turns to the booze.

He’s had enough of it. He’s kept quiet this long because a part of him feels like – well, like he deserves it, honestly, like he needs to be punished for what he did, but Rick acts like none of it matters. He has to know how he’s affecting Morty, has to see what his binge-drinking is doing to his grandson, yet he’s made no attempts to put a stop to it, made no attempts to even _talk_ about it. 

It’s making them both miserable when they don’t have to be. If Rick would actually work with him instead of drinking himself into oblivion all the time, Morty knows they could stabilize the bond. There are techniques bonded pairs can learn, ways to filter out each other’s thoughts and emotions, mental blocks they could use that would help prevent all of the negative feedback they’re experiencing now. 

Morty knows their bond is fractured. From the first moment he stumbled across Rick’s vibrant, stormy mindscape he’d known that he wasn’t supposed to be there, that he didn’t belong. He hesitates to use the word ‘forced,’ but that’s what he’d done. He’d forced the soulbond onto Rick, without his consent, without his knowledge, and even though he’d had a good reason it still makes him feel sick, slimy, shame clinging to him like a second skin every time Rick looks at him. 

Soulbonds are _serious_. They require patience, hard work. They have to be _wanted_. And there are so many things that can go wrong if you don’t do them right. That’s why soulbonding without the guidance of a trained professional is so frowned upon. That’s why intended pairs spend months or even years preparing for it, learning to strengthen their mental blocks, learning how to deal with the consequences of being so intrinsically linked. Morty remembers what his parents had told him, what the soulbonding class he’d taken his freshmen year had tried to instill in his head – that soulbonds are a partnership, and that going into them without knowing all the facts, without understanding all of the risks, can result in irreparable damage for everyone involved. 

Morty swallows, shamefully tearing his gaze away from Rick’s face and back to the stretch of space outside the window. He remembers something else from that class, too – that soulbonds are only possible between two or more people who are compatible. The potential has to be there, there has to be a foundation for the bond to build off of – otherwise, it wouldn’t take. 

He tries not to think about that, about what that means for him and Rick. Tries, and fails. 

He’s almost grateful for the sudden sharp turn the ship takes then; the sudden movement jerks him from his thoughts, and with a startled yelp Morty grabs onto his seat, stuttering out, “G-geez, Rick, what are you – ?“

“Hold on to yo-OORG-ur ass, Morty,” Rick interrupts, turning the wheel and nearly sending the boy sprawling onto the floor. “W-we’re here.”

“Here” turns out to be a planet a little smaller than Earth, its atmosphere wreathed in lilac-colored clouds. Morty presses his nose to the window as they descend, peering out at a stretch of turquoise grass dotted with strange looking trees, tall and thin with golden bulbs dangling from the branches. 

They land in a small clearing, the ship rattling as they touch ground. Morty waits until Rick has clambered out before following along at a more sedate pace, taking in his surroundings at a glance. The grass feels soft and springy under his sneakers, the sky a brilliant shade of blue-green, and the sound of alien wildlife echo around them. It’s definitely one of the more peaceful-seeming planets they’ve been on in a while, though Morty knows better than anyone that appearances can be deceiving. He keeps his guard up, though he doubts he’ll be any use if anything actually does try and attack them. 

“W-what are we doing here, Rick?” he asks, his feet shuffling along the ground as he follows after the old man. 

Rick glances over his shoulder. “We’ve gotta – we’re on a mission, Morty,” he says, his words slurring together more than usual. 

“W-w-what kind of mission?” He’s in no shape to run from intergalactic government officials today, or to chase after Rick on some foolhardy errand. “It’s nothing – n-nothing life-threatening, is it?” Years of space travel with Rick have taught him that these are the questions he needs to ask.

Rick waves a hand dismissively, belching, “’Cou-URP-rse not, Morty. It’s life- _saving_ , and you’re the one – it all, it all hinges on you, Morty.”

Morty stops walking. “What d-does that mean, Rick?” he asks, wary. Something feels – off, though he can’t put his finger on what. Their bond feels hot and cloudy, like a sore tooth left to fester for too long, and Morty’s head hurts if he tries to prod at it. 

He catches Rick’s flinch seconds before a burst of anger crackles over their connection, knows Rick has sensed him trying to use the bond. He turns, surprisingly graceful in his inebriated state, and Morty braces himself for a verbal tongue lashing or worse as Rick strides up to him and clamps bony fingers around his shoulders.

“ _That’s_ it, Morty,” he says, his sour breath making Morty wince. His eyes are red-rimmed and a bloodshot, and he seems to be having some trouble focusing on Morty’s face. “T-that’s exactly why we’re – _urp_ – here.” He pauses, fingers digging into Morty’s shoulders, and Morty has half a second to register the pain before Rick’s next words draw him up short. “I need you to sever t-the – to break the bond, Morty.”

Morty’s mouth falls open. “Y-you – Huh?” 

Rick levers himself away with a push at Morty’s shoulders, though he only takes a few stumbling steps before falling back against a tree and sliding down to the ground. His long legs stretch out in a lazy sprawl.

“Y-y-you – you heard me,” he says, bringing his flask to his lips and gulping down another mouthful of booze. As the seconds tick by and Morty continues to stand there, staring dumbfounded at his grandfather, Rick’s lips twist, gesturing impatiently for Morty to come closer. “C-c’mon, Mo-OUR-ty, get to it. I d-don’t have all day.”

“T-t-that’s why you brought me here?” Morty stutters, his voice climbing in pitch as the absurdity of the situation begins to dawn on him. 

Rick gives him a flat look. “Y-you think we could – could have done it in the house, Morty?” he asks, rolling his eyes skyward. “Just g-get it done and we can – maybe we can stop by Blips and Chitz on the way home.”

Morty doesn’t burst into hysterical laughter, but it’s a near thing. “A-a-are you fucking with me?” he asks incredulously. “R-Rick, you – you know I can’t d-do that.”

Morty catches the way his grandfather’s fingers tighten around his flask right before Rick levels a slightly manic look at him. “Sure you can, Morty,” he says. “You’re the – y-you’re the one that made it. You can make it go away.”

“No I can’t!” Morty shouts, wide-eyed, feeling the beginnings of panic swell in his chest. What the hell is Rick thinking? Bonds can’t be broken on a whim, and even if they could Morty wouldn’t know how to do it. And with theirs in the state that it’s in, so fucked up that Morty can’t even brush against Rick’s mind without feeling like he’s stepping on glass, he’d probably rip his own mind to shreds if he tried to mess with it.

Rick’s eyes go dark, the atmosphere around them thick and uncomfortable. “S-see, it sounds to me like – like you think you have a choice here, Morty. You don’t.”

Morty takes a shuffling step back despite himself. “W-what the hell does that mean, Rick?” he asks, anger sparking to life in his chest. If Rick thinks he’s going to fucking threaten him –

“God, Mo-OURG-ty,” Rick grunts, grabbing onto the tree trunk behind him as he levers himself up off the ground. “You’re not that much of a dipshit. N-now get over here and b-break this thing, or – “

Morty’s eyes narrow. “O-o-or what, Rick? What are you – what are you gonna do if I d-don’t, huh? Force me?”

“I don’t know, Morty, maybe I’ll just – maybe I’ll leave you here.” Rick points a long, bony finger slightly to Morty’s left. Morty spares a moment to be thankful that they’d even managed to arrive planet-side without crashing, if Rick’s depth perception is that fucked. “How would you like th-URP-at, huh? If I left you – just stranded you here? Maybe I should do that anyway. Be a real fucking – a real big load off my mind.”

Morty clenches his fist in the hem of his shirt, refusing to let Rick’s words affect him. “Y-yeah, Rick. ‘C-c-cause running away d-did – worked out so well for you last time.”

Rick’s hand, halfway to lifting his flask to his lips again, stops in mid-air for a brief, telling moment before continuing its ascent. His throat bobs as he takes a long gulp, excess liquor trailing down his chin and falling onto the lapels of his lab coat. He blinks blearily at Morty afterward, unibrow furrowed over his eyes.

“You think you’re re-URP-al, real fucking smart, don’t you, Morty?” he slurs.

Morty doesn’t bother answering. It’s pretty clear by this entire fucking situation that he’s a goddamn idiot, though Rick’s gunning for the number two spot by trying to pull shit like this, acting like it’d be so easy to leave Morty behind.

He’d tried it once, barely a week after the soulbond. The first few days had been hell on their own; an influx of thoughts and emotions that were not his own, combined with the lingering pain and discomfort from Rick’s healing wounds, had left Morty confined to his bed in a haze of pain and disorientation, his aching, pounding head stuffed beneath a pillow and his knees drawn up to his chest. Mood swings would strike him suddenly, violent bursts of anger, pain, and a whole host of emotions Morty couldn’t even put a name to assaulting him in turn, and it was all he could do to muffle his sounds of distress in his pillow so his mom or dad or Summer wouldn’t hear and come investigating.

He’d known Rick was still in the house even without searching for him, knew it with a certainty that both thrilled and terrified him. There was a new sense of awareness building in him, a sharp ache that urged him to leave the confines of his bed and go in search of his wayward grandfather. The desire had been so strong, nearly overwhelming, and he’d felt like a fish on a hook, being reeled toward some uncertain fate with no way to stop it. He’d been too scared of what he’d find if he gave in to that urge, though, and so he’d clenched his pillow between shaky hands and forced himself to ignore everything save the steady in, out, in, out of his breathing. 

He’d managed to drift off into an uneasy sleep, but had been awoken what felt like moments later by a deep, wrenching pain in his gut, like a fist had wrapped around his insides and _squeezed_. His pulse had pounded in his ears, a high-pitched ringing drowning out all other sound until Morty realized that he was keening into his pillow, the pain so intense that he could barely see through the waves of agony crashing over him. 

It had felt like something inside of him was _breaking_ , pulled taut until it snapped in two, and he had pushed his hot, clammy face into his pillow, praying that something, anything, would make it stop.

He doesn’t remember much after that, only the muffled sound of his door opening and closing and the sensation of being lifted, moved about on his bed until he was curled up on the side, tucked against something warm, something that shook when Morty pressed against it. He remembers a strained, gravelly voice muttering curses against his crown, remembers the pain receding little by little until he felt like he could _breathe_ again, remembers how he had lain there soaked in sweat and tears and still trembling from the pain while thin, long-fingers ran through his damp curls. 

He’d woken up alone the next morning, staring at his bedroom wall with the remnants of Rick’s scent – booze and motor oil and ozone – still clinging to his sheets. They’d never talked about it afterward, and Morty had been able to half-convince himself that it had never even happened.

“I c-can handle a little pain, Morty,” Rick says, the hard twist of his mouth forestalling any attempts Morty might make to mention that night again. 

“O-o-oh yeah, Rick?” he taunts, intent on calling the old man’s bluff. “Y-y-you think you’re gonna survive very long without your h-human shield?” It says a lot about their relationship that Morty’s resorted to using the shield card, considering it’s still a sore spot between them and always has been. Still, if it helps him make a point, so be it. Morty’s become a pro at stuffing all of his self-esteem issues into a very big box in the back of his mind, anyway.

Rick takes a deep pull from his flask, his lips twisting as he glares at Morty over the rim. “W-what do you think that replacement Mor-OOUR-ty coupon is for?” he asks, patting one of the many pockets on his rumpled lab coat.

It’s the cruelest thing Rick’s said to him by far. Morty knows not to take everything his grandfather says to heart. He’s learned that Rick’s lashing out is just another way for him to numb himself, to make everyone else hurt so Rick doesn’t have to. Still, the words hit their mark, making Morty’s eyes sting and his breath stutter in his throat, familiar signs that he’s about to cry. He’ll be damned if he gives Rick that satisfaction, though, so he wills the tears back and clenches his teeth around the chasm of hurt and anger that bubbles up in his chest. He’s become a pro at that, too.

“N-nothing to say – no response to that, huh, Morty?” Rick asks. He’s so smug, like he thinks he’s won. That’s how he always is – Ricks always get what they want, even if it means trampling all over their Mortys to get it, and Morty knows – knows without the benefit of their bond, which he’s intent on ignoring for as long as physically possible – that Rick is absolutely certain that Morty is going to give in. He’s just waiting for Morty to realize it, waiting for him to give up and do as Rick asked, because in Rick’s mind, Morty’s got no choice.

Rick lifts his flask again, and something inside of Morty snaps.

“Would you stop d-drinking for one fucking second?!” Before he can really consider what he’s doing, Morty’s moving forward, yanking the flask from Rick’s hand and tossing it, hard. It sails through the air and falls into a copse of bushes a few yards off; something long-tailed and chittering darts from the foliage, disturbed by the noise, and flees out of sight. 

Morty breathes hard while he tries to process what he’s just done; he can barely hear anything for the pounding in his skull, his stomach tight and painful and his eyes burning from the effort of holding his tears at bay. He’s so, so tired. 

Rick throws him a dark look, wiping the saliva from his chin as he takes an unsteady step forward. “You’re really – really a dumb shit, Morty.”

“B-b-because I don’t want to go around feeling sloshed all the time, Rick? Or d-d-did you forget that I – that I have to deal with your shitty hangovers too now?”

Rick’s glare turns incredulous. He takes one clumsy step toward Morty, “You’re blamin’ me for that? I-I wasn’t the one that – that went and fucking _soulbonded_ without thinking about the consequences, Morty.”

“I didn’t have a choice!” Morty all but screams, his voice breaking in the middle. His hands shake at his sides, but he refuses to give in to the urge to wring them together. He’s sick of feeling flustered and scared and _young_ in front of this man. “You d-d-don’t get it, Rick! God, you – “ 

“No, _you_ don’t get it, Morty.” Rick prods at his shoulder, taking a step forward each time Morty shuffles back. “Y-you rushed into this without thinking a-about it, just like you always – always do. And now – “ A particularly hard prod sends Morty tripping backwards, hitting the ground with a harsh wheeze as all of the breath is forced from his body.

Rick doesn’t stop, just falls to his knees and fits his bony knees on either side of Morty’s hips, wrapping his hands in Morty’s t-shirt and yanking him up off the ground.

“You really want me – you want a-a-all of my shit knocking around in there, Mo-OORG-ty?” Rick reaches up and taps the blunt edge of his nail against Morty’s brow, hard enough to sting, but Morty’s too distracted by the sudden ferocity on Rick’s face to notice the pain.

“R-Rick,” he stutters, flushing at their proximity, the influx of blood to his face making him dizzy. “C’mon, get off – “

“You think I like having – having you in here?” Rick continues, as if Morty had never spoken. He rubs his forehead with the hand not clamped into Morty’s shirt, eyes bloodshot and wild. “I d-don’t need your shitty Morty feelings and shitty Morty thoughts and shitty Morty _hormones_ filling u-URP-p my – clogging up my head.”

Morty pushes at Rick’s chest, feeling anger bubble up in his throat, spilling out of him unchecked. “Y-you think I _like_ having you in my head, Rick?” he snaps, fingers catching in Rick’s lapels, twisting in the stained fabric. “Y-y-you think I wanted this at all? I didn’t!”

“T-that’s – that’s real rich, Morty, coming from you,” Rick returns, an insufferably smug look on his face. Morty wants to wipe it away, preferably with his fists. “Con-considering you’re the – URP – the one that got us into this mess in the first place. If you had more than two brain cells to r-rub together maybe you’d have realized how fucking stupid it was to force a soulbond – ”

Morty doesn’t know where it comes from – whether it’s a result of Rick’s volatile emotions influencing his own or if the feelings bubbling up inside of him are all his. The tears that spring to his eyes are definitely all Morty, but for once he doesn’t give a shit about what Rick’s going to think of him, crying like he’s fourteen again. He just doesn’t fucking care.

“I d-didn’t want you to die, asshole!” he shouts, voice hoarse and cracking. It’s fucking embarrassing, moreso than the wetness staining his ruddy cheeks, but he’s already dug himself into a hole, he might as well bury himself while he’s at it. “You were d-d-dying, Rick! Lying there all – all torn apart and b-bleeding, and I couldn’t think, o-okay? I d-did what I thought I had to d-do.” God, he doesn’t want to be here anymore; he feels wrung out, exhausted, and so fucking weak. He’s sick of it, sick of everything – Rick avoiding him, Rick numbing himself with alcohol and letting Morty suffer for it, Rick acting like Morty’s the bad guy because he’d wanted him to live.

Rick stills above him, staring down at him with a look on his face that Morty doesn’t recognize. He doesn’t bother to try and figure it out, doesn’t want to. He just wants to get _away_.

He pushes at Rick’s chest, his grandfather rolling off of him without much resistance. His face is wet with snot and tears, but he only takes a second to wipe a clammy palm over it before pushing himself up off of the ground.

Then he takes a page from Rick’s book, and he runs.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I promise they'll stop being dumb soon!


	3. a fool's devotion

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First off, I am so, so sorry that it took me _nearly two years_ to update this damn thing. A full-time job and my last few semesters of college kind of sucked the motivation to write right out of me. But I'm back! And to those of you who were worrying that this fic was abandoned or discontinued - no need to fret, as I fully intend on finishing it!
> 
> And I just want to take a moment to say how thrilled I am by the reception that this fic has received! To everyone who left a comment/kudos, everyone who has bookmarked this fic, and everyone who even took the time to click on it - thank you, seriously. This fandom is amazing, and so are the people in it <3

Morty stares out over the alien landscape, fists settled loosely on his knees. Air whistles beneath his dangling feet, the heels of his sneakers thudding against stone as they sway in the light breeze. He’s still sweating from his mad dash through the forest, which had lasted only as long as it took to stumble upon this cliff face, and he wipes away a few drops of perspiration from his brow. His hand shakes. 

Morty holds it out, watching as his fingers quiver and bunch up, all with no input from his brain. He curls them into a fist, wrapping both arms firmly around his waist and hunching in on himself. He’s nauseous and a little light-headed from the combination of exertion and the side effects of the bond; no doubt Rick had found his flask and was in the process of draining it dry, if the renewed cotton-mouth and queasy sensation in Morty’s gut is anything to go by. His stomach and throat ache terribly as well – from running, from _screaming_.

_Fucking Rick_ , he thinks, breathing shallowly as air flows over his heated skin. He has no idea where his grandfather is; the only thing he’s sure of is that Rick hasn’t left him. Not yet.

Half of Morty truly does expect Rick to make good on his threat and take off without him. It might have been a bluff, but Morty wouldn’t put it past Rick to go through with it anyway just to prove a point, even if, ultimately, he wouldn’t get very far. The pain of separation and the pull of their bond stretching and snapping remain fresh in Morty’s mind, has his insides squirming uncomfortably at the memory. It’s of small comfort that Rick hadn’t been able to handle it any better than he had. 

As agonizing as that pain had been, however, Morty would almost prefer it to going back to the ship, back to his grandfather’s demands and the infuriating truth that, no matter what Morty says or does, no matter how much he may fight, Rick will always assume that, sooner or later, he’ll cave.

Because he _will_. Morty’s self-aware enough to know that, if push comes to shove, he’ll give in to Rick’s whims just as easily as he’s always done. Because what’s the alternative? Living like this, with intimate knowledge of Rick’s hatred and disgust for him and what he’d done? Watching Rick drink himself into oblivion – worse, _feeling_ it – just to numb himself to the bond that sits, broken and festering, in the back of their heads?

It’s not worth it. Even the risk of doing irreparable damage to himself, of destroying any chance he has to form another bond – a healthier bond, a _normal_ bond – later in life doesn’t seem like so steep a price to pay, if it means he can stop feeling like this. 

Morty sighs out a breath, feels it stick wetly to the back of his throat. He rubs his hands over his face and winces at the gritty feel of his skin. He desperately wants a shower, wants to scrub away the tacky remnants of tears and sweat, wants to bury his face in the familiar softness of his pillow and hide in the darkness of his bedroom for a while. He wants to forget about this day. He wants to go _home_.

But to do that, he’ll have to go and find Rick.

And the easiest way to find Rick, Morty acknowledges with a grimace, is to use the bond, unless he wants to go traipsing around an unfamiliar alien planet for hours. It wasn’t as if he had paid attention to where he was running earlier, after all; the only direction he’d cared about was _away_.

He already knows what Rick’s response will be – mockery, he’s sure, for running away. Morty can hear him now – “Y-you’re just delaying the inevitable, Mo-OURG-orty.” – and it’s the truth. Rick isn’t going to stop pressing him about breaking the bond until Morty finally gives in, and honestly? Morty would agree to just about anything right now if it meant he could go home and get away from Rick for a few hours. Traveling to this planet had been the longest stretch of time he’d spent in the old man’s presence since the night they’d bonded, and the lack of distance is… overwhelming. They’ve spent the last two months carefully avoiding being alone together, and the lack of a buffer – walls, Summer, his parents – between them only serves to heighten the effects of the bond. To make them impossible to ignore.

Morty shakes his head, running his fingers through his damp hair. _You’re stalling_ , he tells himself. _Stop being a wuss and just do it_. He sucks in a breath and lets it out slowly, bracing for the familiar pins and needles sensation of falling into Rick’s violent mindscape, but a disturbance behind him makes him pause – the familiar rumble of a spaceship’s engines.

Morty glances over his shoulder, even though he has no need to. He already knows it’s no alien come to attack him. It’s Rick.

His grandfather’s face is blank behind the glass as he lands the ship; it rocks unsteadily as it touches ground, half buried in a bush of delicate looking blossoms that crumple beneath the weight of its wheels. Rick stumbles as he climbs out, though the expression – or lack thereof – on his face doesn’t change. He’s not holding his flask, but Morty can see the outline of it in his front pocket. Probably emptied it before coming to find him, Morty thinks uncharitably, and then wonders why Rick came after him at all.

_For the same reason he brought you here in the first place_ , he thinks, too resigned to feel any of his earlier outrage. _What else?_

Yet as much as he wants to go home, as much as he wants to get all of this over with, with Rick standing there, the last thing Morty wants to do is go to him. Maybe it’s petty, but for once, he wants it to be Rick who has to ask for what he wants.

So Morty turns his back, facing the drop again, and doesn’t acknowledge Rick’s presence at all. Instead he stares at his dangling sneakers, the wide expanse of seafoam-colored sky beneath him, and waits. 

Rick doesn’t say anything, not for a long time. Morty can feel his eyes boring into the back of his skull, though, and beads of sweat rise along his hairline as the seconds tick away into minutes. The bond crackles between them like a live-wire and Morty doesn’t dare touch it, feeling the burn of too many emotions filtering through as it is. The anger and disgust he’s familiar with, but it’s different now, somehow, less sharp. Morty wonders for a moment if it’s all even directed at him, and his fists clench against his knees. Time ticks by. 

After the lengthy silence, the scuff of Rick’s shoes moving along the ground makes him jump, but Morty resists the urge to turn his head and watch his grandfather’s approach. He’s afraid to touch the bond, afraid of what it might tell him, so he does nothing, staring hard at his trembling hands and bracing himself for whatever is about to happen.

He freezes as something falls against his back, staring in bewildered shock at the swirling eddies of wind below his feet.

“R-Rick?” he chokes out, heat creeping up his neck. Rick’s shoulders rest snugly against his own, his head tilted back to the sky and wisps of his wild hair brushing the back of Morty’s neck. Faced with the unexpected contact, Morty’s heart thrums uncomfortably loud in his ears. “What – what are you – ?”

“What’s it feel like, M-Morty?” Rick asks, voice bare of inflection. “Being in my head?” 

Morty’s fingers dig into his knees, nails scraping against the denim. “W-why are you asking me?”

Rick huffs out a breath, low and annoyed. “B-Because if you’re so – so d-determined to go through with this – this bullshit, Morty, you need to understand how, how far this goes.”

Morty opens his mouth, angry. Does Rick really think that he doesn’t understand the consequences of what he’s done by now? 

“L-Listen, you little shit,” Rick interrupts, and all of Morty’s fight drains out of him as the older man slumps against his back, a line of warmth that Morty can’t escape, not unless he wants to go straight over the cliff’s edge. “T-there’s more to a soulbond than just – than just the idealized little fairytale bullshit they try to sell you in school. I-It’s more than just sharing thoughts and feelings. It’s mu-UUGH-ch more intrusive than that, Morty. It’s _everything_ , Morty. D-don’t you get that?”

“D-do you think I don’t understand that by now, Rick?” Morty asks, unable to stem the bitter edge to his voice. “I-I’ve spent the past two months barely able to – to function because of you.”

“Y-you think I’ve been enjoying myself, Morty?” Rick grunts. “I-Is that what you think, Morty? Y-y-you think it’s been easy, having you messing around – having you fucking around in my head at all hours of every goddamn day?”

Guilt bubbles thick and sour in Morty’s stomach, and he curls in on himself, stricken. “I-I’m trying to control it.”

Rick scoffs. “Good job.”

Anger flairs fast and hot in Morty’s blood at the disdain in Rick’s voice. “Y-you know, it would help if you – if you actually helped me, Rick! If you stopped ignoring it. Maybe if you gave a shit about anything other t-t-than getting trashed all the time – “

“You know what would _help_ , Morty?” Rick spits. “I-It would help – it would be great if your shitty dreams would stop fucking up my concentration in the middle of the night. It would help if I could put a few miles between us without feeling like – l-like my body was tearing itself apart. I’m fucking tethered to you, Mo-OURG-rty, do you think that’s fun for me? You’re a literal ball and chain, Morty. It’s pretty fucking inconvenient.”

Morty turns his head, the bulk of Rick’s words sliding off his back like water, none of it sticking save for one thing. “Y-you know what I dream about?”

Rick glares at him out of the corner of his eye. “T-That’s seriously all you got from what I just said, Morty?”

“W-what did you mean?” Morty presses. He knows soulbonds are constant – you can’t just switch them off, not even when you fall asleep – but he’d never considered that dreams, like thoughts and emotions, could be shared between partners.

Rick blows out a breath. “I can’t _see_ what you dream about, M-Morty, don’t get your panties in a bunch. I can _feel_ it.”

Morty hesitates. “W-what… what does it feel like?” 

“You know your dreams better than me, Morty. What do you t-think they feel like?”

Morty’s stomach drops. His dreams run the gambit from the mundane to the terrifying, the latter courtesy of all the cosmic horrors he’s been subjected to since Rick crashed into his life. Occasionally his hormones take the reins, though thankfully he’s had none of those particular dreams lately. No, since the night he’d bonded with Rick his dreams have consisted of one thing: Rick dying in his arms, all blood and torn flesh and ashen skin. Sometimes the bond saves him, just the same as it did in reality, but sometimes it doesn’t. Sometimes Morty’s too terrified to do anything and Rick bleeds out on the ground, his blood soaking into Morty’s clothes and skin, turning everything wet and black. 

“You see, M-Morty?” Rick says, after Morty’s silence goes on too long. “Do y-you get it? T-this bond – it isn’t sustainable. It’s disruptive. It’ll – it’s gonna fuck everything up, Morty. We can’t be in each other’s heads. You have to break it.”

Morty’s mouth opens, but his throat closes around the words that linger on the tip of his tongue. _I don’t want to_. It’s stupid and terrifying, because he shouldn’t _want_ this, not any of it, not even if they _had_ actually bonded the right way. There’s no universe – not any, he thinks with a grimace – where Rick would even _want_ to.

The despair that crashes over him at that thought, ridiculous and pathetic as it is, must be strong enough to be felt through the bond, because Rick goes very still against his back. 

_Don’t_ , Morty thinks, humiliation churning in his gut. _Don’t say anything. Please._

He’s on tenterhooks as he waits for Rick to speak, but all Rick says is, “The longer we wait, t-the harder it’ll be to break the damn thing, Morty. Y-you really want to live like this?” Rick’s voice softens at the question, lacking its usual harshness, and something in Morty crumples. 

He doesn’t tell Rick that he’d never given any thought to breaking the bond. He doesn’t tell Rick that he’d never regretted what he’d done, not even with all the shit that followed. He doesn’t tell Rick that he’d do it again, if he had the choice. Not if it meant keeping Rick alive.

Instead, he says, “I’ll do it,” his eyes trained on a slender, bird-like creature with iridescent feathers flitting through the clouds above their heads. “I-I’ll break the bond.”

Rick swallows noisily behind him, inhales as if to speak, but Morty isn’t finished.

“But I won’t do it now.”

Rick stiffens against him, the line of his shoulders growing taut. “M-Morty, what the hell – “

“I’ll only do it i-if we – we have to stabilize the bond first, Rick. W-we have to fix it. I won’t – “ Morty rubs his lips together, grasping for the confidence to make Rick see. He won’t – he can’t – be swayed on this. “I won’t risk messing something up, or hurting us. We have t-to do this the right way. D-do you hear me, Rick?” He won’t do it any other way. And Rick has to help, has to stop ignoring the bond by attempting to drown it with liquor. It’s Morty’s fault that they’re in this mess, but he can’t get them out of it on his own. Rick has to see that.

It takes Rick’s back and shoulders a long, tense moment to unclench. When he finally relaxes it’s with an explosive exhale, followed by fishing around in his coat pocket. The slosh of liquid echoes in the silence between them, and Morty sinks his teeth into his bottom lip to refrain from reaching for that damn flask and tossing it again – this time, straight over the cliff. 

“F-fine,” he hears, distracting him from his ire even as Rick’s head tilts back, no doubt taking a long pull from his flask. 

Morty twists around, staring at the back of Rick’s head. “Y-you’ll do it?” he asks, skeptical. 

“T-that’s what I said,” Rick confirms, annoyance coloring his tone and filtering thick and sharp through the bond. He belches and wipes a hand across his mouth, shooting Morty a look that forestalls any further comments. “T-Thanks for twisting my arm, Morty. That’s real – a real smart move.” He doesn’t give Morty a chance to respond before he climbs to his feet, swaying unsteadily and jostling Morty’s shoulder before righting himself with a drunken grumble. “N-Now let’s get off this fucking planet.” 

Morty watches him stagger back to the ship, nearly tripping over his own feet as he goes to take his place at the wheel. He sighs out a long breath, rising to his own feet more slowly. He’s a little dizzy himself, the back of his mouth dry and fuzzy, but at least he can walk without staggering and can trust himself to get them both home in one piece. He heads straight for the driver’s seat.

“M-Move over,” he says, nudging Rick’s shoulder when his grandfather continues to stare blankly. “C-c’mon, Rick, you’re in no condition to drive home right now.”

Rick’s lips twist in a nasty smirk, but at least he doesn’t give Morty any grief, just shuffles over to the passenger seat and tosses his feet up on the dashboard. “L-Look at you, Mo-OUGH-rty. Calling all the – all the shots now, aren’t you?”

Morty ignores him, strapping himself in and readying the ship for liftoff. _Oh yeah, Rick_ , he thinks, glancing at his grandfather sprawled across the passenger seat as he if doesn’t have a care in the world. Probably doesn’t, now that he knows he’ll be getting what he wants. Eventually. _I’m totally in charge_.

What a fucking joke.


End file.
